


Melanie's Shadow

by Calacious



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crime, M/M, Pre-Slash, Supernatural Elements, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4578000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the investigation into the murder of a Hutch doppelganger/double, the blonde detective disappears and Starsky must race against the clock to try and rescue his missing partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doppleganger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suerum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suerum/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on, and inspired by characters created by William Blinn.
> 
> A/N: This will feature a non-explicit slash relationship between Starsky and Hutch (toward the end), as well as violence and gore. Hutch whump, Starsky angst, and comfort toward the end. Written for suerum, and also for (thanks for the encouragement, both of you).

Starsky pondered what he'd accidentally overheard the other day and frowned. _Love?_ Was that even the right word to tack onto what he and Hutch had? Certainly there was more to their relationship than could be attributed to that lone word.

He saw Hutch waving him over to their latest crime scene and shook his head to clear it. He smiled and then jogged over to his partner.

"What've we got?" he asked, grimacing at the blood he could see a little beyond where Hutch stood.

"Shots fired. Dead man. No eyewitnesses," Hutch rattled off, ticking each item off on his fingers. He rolled his eyes when he got to the part about the lack of witnesses, clearly not believing it.

Starsky frowned and peered past his partner. His heart lurched up into his throat when he caught a glimpse of the dead man. He blinked and then walked forward on legs that had grown numb with trepidation. He knelt down next to the dead man and looked back at Hutch and did a double-take.

Hutch made a face and then nodded. "Yeah, I know, you don't have to say it."

But Starsky had to say it anyway. It couldn't not be said. "You got a twin brother I don't know about?" The joking tone he used did nothing to alleviate the sense of panic that he was feeling, nor any of the tension in the air.

"If I did, I don't anymore," Hutch said drily. He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Starsky shook his head. "No one saw or heard anything?"

"Nope," Hutch said and he rocked back on his heels.

"This happened in broad daylight and on a street corner where there's a lot of business, and nothing?" Starsky couldn't shake the mounting anger.

He knew that someone had seen or heard what had happened, and even though he knew that the witnesses were probably just afraid to come forward, it did nothing to quell the anger that he felt. He was also having a hard time not seeing Hutch's features in the dead man he was looking at – it was a truly uncanny resemblance, and left a pit of cold fear in his stomach.

"What do you make of it?" Hutch asked, and Starksy glanced back at his partner. Hutch was scratching the back of his head, a gesture of nervousness which was not lost on Starsky but is probably not recognized as such by those watching them process the scene.

Starsky shrugged. "Looks like…" he trailed off as something caught his eye. His blood ran cold.

"What, what is it?" Hutch knelt down next to Stasky, squeezing his shoulder as he did so. He whistled and shook his head when his eyes followed where Starsky's gaze was locked on the dead man's wrists.

"Ligature marks," Starsky said.

He moved the sleeve of the man's jacket up a little to reveal rope burns – starkly red against the deathly white/gray pallor of the dead man. It was clear that, when he was alive, he had fought the restraints, and for quite a time if the severity of the wounds were anything to go by. It also appeared as though the man's chest had been burned with something like a blowtorch.

"Looks like he was held for…" Hutch paused and frowned in thought, his shoulder brushing against Starsky's as he too reached for the dead man's wrist, trailing his fingers along the outside of it, not quite touching the raw marks left on the skin. "A couple of days, maybe a week?" He looked to Starsky for confirmation.

Starsky nodded. "Seems about right." His eyes were drawn to the dead man's throat, where there was evidence of strangling - deep, purple rope marks. His brow furrowed, he turned his gaze to his partner. "Why bother to strangle and burn a man if you're just going to shoot him?"

"It does seem like a bit of overkill," Hutch agreed. His arm brushed against Starsky's when he moved to

stand.

"Unless you want to throw off the police," Starsky said thoughtfully. "I don't think the gunshot killed him. I think he was dead before he was shot."

Hutch pursed his lips and nodded. "Yeah, I think you might be right."


	2. Sleepless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no such thing as coincidence.

Even though they've cleared the scene and the medical examiner had verified that, yes, Hutch's doppelgänger was strangled to death, and that the gunshot wound had happened postmortem, Starsky can't seem to get the image of the dead man out of his head. It was seared in his memory, except it wasn't some unknown stiff's face he kept seeing, but his partner's.

Unable to sleep, Starsky rolled over in bed and glared at his alarm clock. It was only three in the morning, and there was no way that he could justify calling Hutch at that early hour, not without risking his partner finding out that he was worried about him.

What were the odds that whoever had killed Hutch's lookalike would stop with killing just one man, though? Starsky was willing to bet even money that they were looking at the handiwork of some kind of serial killer who wouldn't stop until he'd killed other men with blonde hair and blue eyes, and lips that could…

Starsky sat up and scrubbed a hand down his face. He blew out a breath of air and decided that, if he couldn't sleep and he couldn't call his partner, he might as well keep himself busy doing something productive. Thinking about how his partner shared the face of a dead guy wasn't exactly productive –more like nightmare inducing. Going into the precinct early and looking at some cold case files, though, that would be productive.

By the time that he's working on his twentieth cup of the crappiest coffee he's had in a long time, Starsky's more than just a little jittery and he still can't shake the image of the dead man's eyes, staring up at him – milky, filmed over in death, and unseeing. They looked like Hutch's eyes, almost down to the little slivers of silver that seem to sparkle when they catch the light just right.

The clock on the wall showed him that it was nearing eight in the morning, and Hutch should be strolling in through the front door in the next minute or two. He bent his head to look at the file he was currently reading, and tried to immerse himself in it. It wasn't a particularly captivating case – an unsolved robbery with no leads – but he was hoping that it would at least keep him from thinking about the dead man from yesterday.

"I hope you bring me some doughnuts, and some decent coffee," Starsky muttered aloud when the long hand on the clock started approaching the six. His stomach rumbled and he frowned when the door opened, but another officer, rather than his partner, entered the bullpen.

Starsky tossed the file on his desk with no small amount of disgust. He just couldn't concentrate, and his partner was never this late.

"Probably having some car trouble," Starsky said to himself, shaking his head. When would his partner wise up and buy a new car? That thing which deigned to call itself a car caused Hutch no small amount of headaches.

"Hey, Captain Dobey wants you and Hutch in his office, now," some officer Starsky didn't know the name of interrupted his thoughts, and, were it not for the absence of his very tardy partner; Starsky would have welcomed the interruption.

"Alright," he said with a little more heat than was necessary and ignored the officer when the man held his hands out as though to say, 'Don't take it out on me.'

"I hope you've got a good excuse for not being here," Starsky said beneath his breath as he walked into Captain Dobey's office.

* * *

Hutch felt like he was floating, and his eyelids felt like they were dried shut. His lips and tongue were equally dry. Desiccated. That was the word for it. He was almost certain.

His thoughts were fleeting, and he knew that there was somewhere he was supposed to be, something he should be doing, but he couldn't recall what. He also didn't know where he was. Which was far more disconcerting than anything else.

"Starsk?" it was almost impossible to form his partner's name on his lips, and the single syllable nickname came out sounding raspy, and broken. A barely there whisper.

He made to move his hands, but they were stuck together, and they hurt. His legs wouldn't move either, and for a brief, panicky moment, he was reminded of the vic they came across yesterday. The corpse with his face. Was it just yesterday?

"Stasky." His voice was a little stronger, though it was still just a whisper, as though he was trying to shake a nightmare and his voice just didn't want to work properly.

Even when he finally managed to prize his eyes open, the darkness was oppressive, weighing down on him.

And he was surrounded by silence. No, the silence wasn't complete, he could hear the beating of his own heart, and his own uneven breaths as he struggled to take in air.

"Starsky, buddy, don't fail me now," Hutch whispered, straining against his bindings. He had a bad feeling that maybe there was more than just a passing connection between him and the dead body that he and Starsky had been brought in to investigate.


	3. Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In her brother's shadow.

Melanie prided herself on her ability to blend in with her surroundings. When she was younger, she hated it. Hated that she was always lingering in her older brother's shadow. The golden child. The one that her parents actually wanted. But now, her ability to fade into the scenery served her well.

Pete's shadow had been a long, cruel shadow to live beneath. It was dark and constricting. Made her feel like she couldn't breathe. It wasn't until he was gone that she finally felt free, and as though she had a life of her own.

But, she soon found out that there were others like him. The same bright looks. The same wide smiles. The same blonde hair. The same baby blue eyes that made everyone swoon.

It was disgusting, and Melanie couldn't stand the thought of those men and their cool, dark shadows. Drowning out everyone else. Making everyone else, making her, invisible.

Even though Melanie hated living within the shadows, she used them to her advantage. She smiled to herself as she thought about the latest one. Her latest shadow to fell.

This one had dimples, like Pete. His hair was golden and silky to the touch. Her fingers slid through it with ease. It was almost a pity, what she'd have to do, but there were others, so many more like him. They needed to be stopped. Like she'd stopped Pete.

Melanie patted her latest shadow on the cheek and ran her fingers through his hair one last time before injecting him with more of the sedative which had made it so easy for her to subdue him in the first place.

"It was all so very simple; trapping you," she said, frowning down at the man with eyes that were too blue and a smile that could outshadow the sun.

The man had just been returning from the morning run that she'd observed he took every morning, like clockwork, before he got ready for work. That too, had been just like Pete. Her brother, the golden boy. Her parent's pride and joy. The star athlete. It was enough to make her want to puke.

"And now that I've got you, I'm going to make sure that no one ever suffers the way I did with Pete." She patted the shadow's cheek as his eyelids fluttered, and finally closed, his breath evening out in a drugged sleep.

* * *

"Look, Captain, if I knew where my partner was, believe me, I'd tell you!" Starsky didn't know why Captain Dobey was getting on his case about his missing partner, but it was starting to rankle him. It also increased his anxiety about his partner's welfare and put him even more on edge.

"I need both of you on this case." Captain Dobey punctuated each of his words with his finger, coming to within an inch of actually poking Starsky in the chest.

"If he doesn't show up within the next few minutes, I'll swing by his place and pick him up," Starsky said.

"Good. See that you do."

Starsky gave his captain a terse smile and walked out of the man's office. He resisted the urge he had to slam the door, and took a deep, steadying breath instead. He was upset, but he didn't think it was right to take it out on the one man who, if he shared his concerns about his partner with, would understand and listen.

Starsky shook his head as he walked into the bullpen. Hutch still wasn't there and now he felt as though an iron grip had taken hold of his heart and was squeezing it mercilessly. Something had happened to his partner, he'd bet even money on it - if he was a betting man, and if Hutch would actually let him make a bet. Not very likely. The thought of what his partner would say to him right now if he even mentioned going to Las Vegas to gamble gave rise to a dry chuckle.

Seeing no sign of Hutch, Starsky bypassed his desk and headed over to his best friend's place, hoping that there was a simple explanation for why Hutch hadn't yet shown up at work. He didn't bother trying to reach the other man by phone, because he suddenly felt an urge to get to his partner's place as soon as possible. Worry didn't even begin to cover what it was that he was feeling.

Starsky sighed in relief when he saw his partner's car parked out on the street, in front of the apartment building. Venice Place was a quaint apartment building, and Hutch's apartment, number twenty-four, was comfortable and rather spacious for a bachelor's pad.

Starsky whistled as he sprinted up the steps toward his partner's apartment. There was a smile on his face and a spring to his step as he thought of a way to get back at his friend for worrying him and Captain Dobey. His smile fell as he reached the second floor, and the fist that he'd held up to knock on the door dropped to his side, even as he reached for his gun and cursed.

Hutch's door was ajar, not by much, but enough to alarm him. Upon closer inspection, Starsky saw a crimson splotch on the landing, near the edge of the door. He held his breath, and carefully entered the apartment, calling out, "Hutch," as he went in, gun-hand first.

Fear clutched at Starsky's throat as he cleared each room - not that there were many rooms for him to clear- and he didn't find his partner in any of them. Starsky went over the facts that he had at his disposal: Hutch hadn't shown up at work on time, he wasn't home and his car was still sitting out front, his door had been left open, and, as far as Starsky could tell, there was a spatter of blood outside the door.

As much as he didn't want to admit it to himself, Starsky knew that Hutch was in trouble. His mind conjured up an image of the dead man they'd examined yesterday, and Starsky prayed that whoever had killed his partner's lookalike didn't have Hutch in his clutches now.

 


	4. Tears and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hutch is in and out of consciousness, and Melanie is the one thing that remains a constant, yet thoughts of Starsky are not far away.

Hutch woke to darkness and confusion. He was cold, and couldn't feel his hands or feet.

Upon further inspection, Hutch realized that he couldn't move, not even a twitch. He was paralyzed.

He tried not to panic. Tried to think like the detective that he was.

But, as the darkness persisted, and the paralysis did not give way to movement, Hutch found it difficult to concentrate on anything else. His head hurt, making thinking a painful process.

He could hear his heartbeat, and his rapid, ragged breathing as his mind kept him trapped in ever worsening scenarios about what might have happened to him. First and foremost on his mind was that he'd been buried alive, or that he'd been mistakenly thought of as dead and placed in one of the drawers at the morgue.

He couldn't even find his voice to cry out and let the medical examiner know that he was alive.

Terrified, Hutch felt as though his heart would burst right out of his chest. His panic was momentarily quelled when he realized that the medical examiner had obviously not yet performed an autopsy on him. His frantically beating heart was proof enough of that, and maybe, by the time his drawer was opened, he'd be able to speak or maybe just move a fraction, to prove that he was alive and keep the doctor from opening him up.

The thought of being alive, but unable to move or speak, while undergoing an autopsy was enough to make Hutch's already rapidly beating heart increase it's frenetic beating seven-fold. It was almost painful, and Hutch found himself clinging to that sensation because he couldn't feel anything else.

The sound of blood rushing in his ears and the faintness which accompanied it were welcome as well. More proof that he was, in actuality, living.

"I see that you're awake again," a cool, female voice observed.

It came at him out of the darkness, seemingly from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It was disorienting. The voice, and the sound of echoing footsteps that accompanied it, enveloped him.

Hutch felt his blood run cold, and panic gripped him in its clutches once more, and he was still unable to move.

He inwardly flinched when he felt something cold touch his cheek.

_Fingers,_ his mind belatedly informed him after they'd been removed.

He still couldn't find his voice and a new fear stole over him as an image of his partner, wounded or dead, sprang to mind.

_Starsky!_ his mind shouted, the word never making it past lips that he was unable to move.

An icy anger filled his veins, slowing his heart a little, and clearing his mind as he thought about Starsky being in danger. If that woman had hurt his partner, Hutch was going to forget that she was a woman and that he was a detective until he'd made her pay for whatever it was that she'd done to Starsky.

"Pity that you can't be more cooperative, and stay asleep, because this is probably going to hurt," the woman said.

She laughed coarsely, and the cold fingers were placed against his cheek once again, leaving a burning sensation in their wake. He wondered if they were poisoned fingers, or if they'd been dipped in acid. He almost laughed at the absurdity of his thoughts and conversely felt like crying as he thought about his partner, who might be dead, or injured.

Hutch felt useless and guilty for not being able to be there for Starsky. He hoped, alive and injured, or dead, that his partner would be able to forgive him for not coming to his aid.

"All of you golden boys are alike," the woman's voice was deceptively calm and thoughtful sounding as she spoke.

Hutch could feel her breath, warm against his ear. It made him shiver.

"Stealing the light and love of the world from the rest of us; making us live in the shadows. Always taking credit, even for things that you haven't done." The woman's fingers dug into his chin, her fingernails were sharp and Hutch wondered, in a detached sort of fascination, if she'd drawn blood.

"I've watched you. Always casting that shadow of yours over others. I'm going to show you the error of your ways, and then, I'm going to stop you, for good." Fingers wrapped into his hair and pulled, lifting his head and dropping it down.

His head bounced off of something hard, causing the pain in his head to blossom. He saw stars and his stomach clenched. He wondered, briefly, if he was going to be sick, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come and Hutch tried to concentrate on the words that were being spoken. He couldn't make heads or tails of them, and that scared him.

_What would Starsky do?_ he asked himself, and would have laughed at the absurdity of the question if he could have made any sound.

Hutch found memory returning to him. A slight, dark haired woman waiting for him outside of his apartment when he'd returned from his run. Inviting her in when she'd asked if she could use his phone. The keys falling from his hand just as he'd undone the lock. A feeling of nothingness, and overwhelming lethargy, overtaking him.

Starsky would have done the same damn thing. Fallen prey to a pretty face and a honeyed voice.

In the thick of it all, he'd felt something like the pin prick of a needle in his shoulder and then he'd just followed the woman on legs that felt like rubber. His mind had been in a fog, like it hadn't been his own. His will surpassed by some drug and the woman whose hands he was in.

That, more than anything else, caused Hutch to fear for his life. He wondered what kind of drug he'd been subjected to, and how many times he'd been injected.

Memories of the last time he'd been drugged flooded him, and Hutch prayed that he'd be spared the pain that came from being weaned from an opiate.

This drug felt different. It didn't make him feel good or high. It made him feel trapped in his own body and vulnerable.

Along with memories of the pain of withdrawal, came those of Starsky. Strong, immovable arms holding him. Calm, soothing words whispered in his ear.

The feeling of safety, and love, had been almost overwhelming. Starsky's hold in him had been solid and secure.

He'd refused to let his partner go, even when Hutch had fought him with every bit of strength that he'd had left. He knew that he'd hurt Starsky with his fists and his words, and yet, Starsky hadn't given up on him.

_Love_. The word stood out in bold relief in his mind's eye.

Starsky loved him, and he loved Starsky. It was something that they, and others, had joked about on many occasions. As Hutch found himself at the mercy of some deranged person who bore a deceptively angelic face of innocence, he realized, with a flood of emotion, that he loved Starsky as more than just a partner and a friend.

"Your eyes are too blue," the woman said suddenly, and Hutch felt fingers prying his eyelids open. He hadn't realized that they were closed, and had feared that he was blind.

Now, he almost wished that he was blind, as the woman's face, once so beautiful, was twisted in a paroxysm of hideous anger.

She was mere inches from his face, her dark eyes peering intently into his. Her lacquered nails were hovering in view, just above his right eye, and Hutch held his breath as he envisioned the woman jabbing her nail into his eye, maiming him.

He wanted to ask who she was, but he still couldn't speak. His drugged paralysis made it impossible for him to move away from her.

Hutch felt like one of the butterflies he'd collected and stuck to a pinboard when he was a kid. He'd felt nothing for them at the time. Now, he felt a strange camaraderie with them. He hoped they hadn't been in too much pain. That they hadn't felt fear when the pin had struck.

The pain didn't register right away when the nail, painted a fitting crimson, scratched across the surface of his eye. It didn't hurt, but his eyelid scrunched closed over the wound, and his eyes teared up, he could feel a lone tear laying a track across his cheek, and it felt odd that he could feel the tear, and not the pain.

"Too blue," the woman repeated. "But I'll take care of that, just like I did with others."

Hutch found himself praying for Starsky to find him, or for the prick of a needle to plunge him back into a blissful state of unconsciousness. Fingernails trailed lightly down his cheek, a thumb brushed away his tear, and Hutch wished that all of this was a dream that he'd soon wake up from.

* * *

Melanie brought her thumb up to her mouth and sucked the salt of the shadow's tear from it. She hadn't done that before, made one of them cry. It felt good, and she wondered why she hadn't thought to do it before.

Feeling powerful and more alive than she had in a very long time, Melanie raked the shadow's face with her nails, drawing blood and fresh tears. She laughed and relished the strange fluttering she felt in the pit of her stomach.

Tears mixed with blood, and Melanie's heart quickened. She bit her bottom lip and contemplated what else she could do with the shadow. How else she could make him hurt and cry before she saved the world from his poisonous ways?


	5. Vicky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An eye witness gives Starsky a lead.

"What you doin' there?"

An elderly woman hobbled up to Starsky. She held a worn wooden cane in one of her gnarled hands, and shook it at the detective. Her white hair was unkempt and pulled up into a bun that she'd wrapped in a faded blue kerchief. She gave Starsky a once over, and leaned in close to peer at him over the rim of her half moon glasses. She sniffed the air around him and tapped the side of her nose, and then quirked an eyebrow at him.

"He ain't home, you know," she said, and thumped Starsky on the chest with a bony finger. "Took off with that woman. Brazen hussy," she muttered beneath her breath, and shook her head. "You mark my words, young man, ain't no good gonna come of that. No sirree." She shook her head and patted her hair.

"You saw what happened?" Starsky asked. He tried not to let his impatience get the better of him, he somehow doubted that Hutch's neighbor, whoever she was, would take kindly to him demanding answers.

The woman nodded, causing white wisps of hair to escape from the aged kerchief. She jutted her chin out and narrowed her eyes at Starsky, as though she thought he was somehow at fault for whatever it was that had happened.

"I didn't like the looks of her," she said in a hoarse whisper that carried well beyond the two of them. She leaned in close to Starsky, allowing him to get a whiff of her floral perfume, and onion breath. "Her eyes were dartin' all over the place. She was shifty, up to no good."

"You know the man who lives here?" Starsky asked, thinking that this woman might not ever really know what she was talking about.

"'Course I do. I'm his neighbor, ain't I?" She reared back and gave Starsky a look that clearly showed she doubted his intelligence.

"So, you know Hutchinson? Ken Hutchinson?" Starsky wanted there to be no doubt in his mind that it was his partner that the woman was talking about, that she wasn't just some random elderly woman off her rocker.

"That's what I said, ain't it?" The woman was now eyeing him as though she doubted his sanity, and his intelligence, but Starsky didn't care. He gave her a smile which he hoped would make him look a little less insane than she clearly thought he was.

"Yes, sorry," Starsky said. "Did you see what happened to him?"

"'Course I did, I was standing right where I always stand that time of the morning, when he makes his run." She pointed just down the walkway where a geranium sat on the wall, and Starsky nodded.

"That's where I live, see?" the woman said, and she was nodding to herself. Starsky fought the urge to rush her, because he knew that she might clam up if he did. "I like to walk in the mornings, usually Mr. Hutchinson and I pass each other. Just as I'm heading out , he's heading in. But, not today, no sirree. Today that hussy of a woman corralled him into her car like there weren't no tomorrow. I didn't like the looks of her, no way, no how." She let out an irritated huff, and shook her head. "Had an evil look about her, that one."

"What color was her hair?" Starsky asked through gritted teeth.

"Black as midnight," the woman said in a low growl, "heart filled with nothing but evil."

"And, how tall was she?"

The woman frowned in thought, her bushy silver brows bunching together. "'Bout yay high." She raised the hand not holding the cane to a point that was just about shoulder height for Starsky.

"And, do you know about how much she weighed?" Starsky was trying to put a mental picture together, but was having a hard time imagining his partner being taken hostage by a dark-haired woman who was shorter than both of them.

She chewed on her bottom lip, and seemed to mull the question over before coming to some kind of conclusion that did not bode well for Starsky if the dark look on her face was anything to go by. "How come you asking me all these questions? Something happen to that nice, young man? And, who are you, the police?"

Starsky groaned inwardly, but forced a smile on his face and pulled out his badge. He allowed the woman to grasp it in her gnarled hands and examine it. She brought it up close to her face, and took her time looking it over before she was finally satisfied and handed it back to him.

"So, something happen to him? He dead?" she asked bluntly.

A sudden lump formed in Starsky's throat and he swallowed. Unable to find his voice, he simply shook his head, and prayed that his partner was still alive.

"No, no ma'am," he finally managed.

"Vicky," the woman said, holding her hand out to him. He shook it. "Vicky Carter. I been living here goin' on twenty years now. It'd be a shame if something happened to Mr. Hutchinson. He's most polite."

"He didn't show up for work today, and I was hoping that I'd catch him at home, maybe," Starsky felt compelled to say.

"That devil woman's got him," Vicky said with certainty. "Had him trailin' after her like he'd been drugged or somethin'. It was a sight to see, and, the fact that he didn't turn around when I said hello to him, that told me right then and there that somethin' was wrong."

Starsky felt like throttling the elderly woman for not calling the police, but he reined his temper in, and loosened his fists. Smoothing his palms along his jeans, he gave her a tight smile. "Did you see what kind of car she was driving, maybe the license plate?"

Vicky shook her head, and Starsky felt as though the ground was shifting beneath his feet. The world spun a little and tilted on its axis, and he didn't know if he'd be able to hold on much longer. He wanted to be out there, no, needed to be out there, looking for Hutch before it was too late, and the only lead that he had to go on was that he'd been taken by some devil woman with black hair who was a head shorter than the both of them.

"Well, thanks for your time, Mrs. Carter," Starsky said politely.

"I didn't get the license plate number, but she was driving a brown Ford. A station wagon, and I remember I thought it was odd at the time, because Mr. Hutchinson got into the back seat, not the front seat. That is what made me think that maybe there was some foul play goin' on, but see, I don't have no phone, and the pay phone's out of order, or I'd've called it in," Vicky said, "I'm glad you're here officer, and I hope you find Mr. Hutchinson. I thought he might be a police officer, what with him being kindly an all."

Vicky patted him on the arm, and Starsky covered her hand with his own. It was soft and delicate, and Starsky was struck by how fragile she looked, now that he was getting a good look at her. "You are a very brave and beautiful woman," he said, and gave her a real smile. "I wonder why I've never met you before. When I bring Hutchinson back, we'll have you over for dinner sometime." He kissed her on the cheek, and then rushed off to find his missing partner.

"Oh," Vicky called out after him, and Starsky turned toward her, "somethin' else 'bout that car seemed mighty strange to me. Back windows were pitch black, like that witchy woman's hair, and she didn't have no working taillights. Both of them was out. It's on account o' my noticin' them what made it so that I couldn' get the license plate number. I ain't no spring chicken you know."

Starsky raced back up the stairs and kissed Vicky right on the lips, thanking her once again.

Vicky held her hand to her blushing cheek and shook her head as she watched the young, dark-haired man take the steps two at a time, and then peel out of the parking lot at breakneck speeds. She hoped that he'd find Mr. Hutchinson alive and well, and started thinking about what she'd bring by for dessert. _A blueberry pie, or maybe a chocolate cake with a thick layer of icing,_ or maybe both, she mused.


	6. Heaven and Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely Hell, even if Hutch doesn't believe in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Characters' thoughts about heaven, hell, god, etc., do not necessarily reflect the beliefs of this writer. There is a bit of the supernatural in this, as well as some blood and gore.

Hutch was in hell. And, that was saying a lot, especially since he didn't believe in hell. He didn't believe in god or the devil, angels or demons. He believed in people, the sense of right and wrong, judges and juries, and the black-and-white letter of the law.

He didn't hold with Catholic tenants and didn't believe that, just because someone was good or gave penance, they'd end up in heaven. Conversely, he didn't believe that just because someone did something bad, they'd end up in hell.

He wondered how a god, who purported to be all-knowing and all-seeing, could be so arbitrary a judge, and why, if he was so powerful, he wouldn't stop certain things from happening in the first place. Hutch had seen a lot of terrible things happen to good people, and he didn't understand how a loving god could allow it to happen. So, he didn't believe in god, or heaven, or hell.

But, that belief, or the lack thereof, aside, he was admittedly in hell. His abductor might not be satan or a minion of his, somehow he doubted that even a princess of darkness would be that pretty, but she was talented in meting out pain.

His world had been reduced to nothing more than pain surrounded by darkness and a soft, lilting voice that belied anything even remotely resembling humanity and common decency. When the woman wasn't ranting about shadows stealing her glory and her name, she was telling him how handsome he was, how beautiful his eyes were. It was like being on a roller coaster and desperately wanting to get off, but being unable to. A never ending roller coaster of dizzying ups and downs.

"Let me off the ride, carny," Hutch whispered through lips so swollen that they barely worked. "Please. Starsk? Make it stop. Please, make it stop."

"Begging?" the demon, with a beautiful woman's face as it's comely mask, intoned. "So lovely. None of the other shadows begged before."

Hutch tried to move away, but he couldn't, and the cold metal blade of a knife bit into his cheek, slicing it. Hutch had lost track of how many times he'd been cut, but, now that the drug had worn off, he could feel each cut keenly.

"Not so pretty anymore, are we?" The devil woman patted his cheek, and it stung. "Can't cast your shadow over others so easily when you're ugly."

Hutch had stopped trying to reason with her hours ago, his voice had gone hoarse, his words had fallen on deaf ears, and the woman had not stopped carving up his face and torso with her knife. She'd reduced his world to little more than shadows, which he found mildly ironic, given her ramblings, by clawing at his eyes, scratching the corneas and limiting his vision. He wondered, if he'd ever be able to see again, provided that he survived, or if she'd effectively blinded him.

The thought of having his vision reduced to seeing only shadows, permanently, was a sobering one. But, the fact that, if he was considered to be legally blind , he'd no longer be able to work, and keep his partner out of trouble, was absolutely terrifying. If he couldn't be a detective, Hutch didn't know what he'd do.

"Starsk," Hutch called out to his partner, even though he knew that it was pointless.

His partner wasn't there, and he was glad of it, but he couldn't help it. Just thinking about Starsky gave him hope, and he wanted his partner to come find him so bad that he could almost it.

"Who you calling for, little shadow?"

The edge of the knife's blade traced the outer edge of his collarbone, and Hutch followed the woman's movement with his eyes. He could see patches of light and darkness, occasionally spots of blood, but little else, and his eyes felt like they'd been ripped from their sockets and replaced numerous times over.

"That your lover? Starsk? Doesn't sound like a woman's name. Are you one of those kind of men?"

The tip of the blade dug into his flesh, just beneath the clavicle bone, and Hutch moaned and fought back tears, because they only hurt his eyes more. He bit his bottom lip and tried to ignore her, but she pushed the tip in further. His back arched off the concrete, and he panted through the pain.

"Or, are you praying to the stars?" she mused. "Starsk, Starsk, come save me, please, make it stop," she mimicked and laughed as she pulled the knife from where she'd lodged it beneath his clavicle.

"Either way, your starry-eyed lover, whoever he, she or it is, won't be able to stop me, won't be able to save you," she said with certainty. "Because you're already dead."

* * *

Melanie's hands were covered with blood. It was salty and sticky, and, when it dried, it caked on her skin and flaked off in brackish petals.

It had soaked through her beige skirt, stained her favorite yellow blouse, and she didn't think she'd ever be able to work it out of her knuckles, no matter how many times she soaped and scrubbed.

She could smell and taste it - a metallic brine - in the stale, damp air of her basement. It was horrifically beautiful, and she reveled in how powerful it made her feel. The shadow's blood strengthened her, filled in the gaps of her soul and made her whole.

She watched as blood trickled from the latest cut she'd made to the once beautiful man's chest. It was just above his right nipple, and the blood mesmerized her, even as it called to her, like a Siren. Before she realized what she was doing, she was bending over the shadow, her long hair trailing through the blood seeping from the various wounds she'd carved into his chest, and tasting of the blood. It was unlike anything she had ever tasted before. Rich, tangy, wild, and like the copper of pennies.

Craving more, she sucked at the blood, delighting in the shiver that it elicited from the shadow. His skin, though he shivered, was still warm to the touch, and she ran her hands over his chest, smearing the blood, and coating her palms with it.

"Tell me," Melanie paused in her artwork and spoke to the shadow, wanting to see the pained look that would come into its ruined eyes as she taunted it, "will your stars continue to shine so brightly for you, now that your blood has been spilled and you're no longer pretty. Will your little lover take you back?"

The shadow's lips moved, but no sound came out. Melanie laughed and drew the edge of her knife across his sternum, applying just enough pressure to make a paper thin cut. She watched the blood bead along the line, and drew another line crisscrossing the first.

"Even now you call this Starsk's name," Melanie said. "It's pathetic, you know. Like me with Pete. Always following after him. Being a nuisance. He never wanted me around. He called me his shadow," Melanie felt the familiar anger burning in her chest, "and told me to get lost. He gave me this," she pulled back the edge of her collar, revealing the very thing which had made her what she was, what her mother had called her - a monster.

Melanie cut the shadow's hands loose, knowing that the bindings were unnecessary, that he couldn't move without being aided. She grasped his hand and pulled it up to her chest.

"Feel that?" She pressed his cold fingers to the scarred flesh. "He did that! Pete didn't love me. He never loved me. All I wanted was to be like him, but he didn't want me around. He told me to get lost. He told me to leave him the hell alone. He's the reason I'm a freak, that no man will even look at, or touch me."

She screamed when tears rolled down her cheeks and she stabbed wildly at her brother, cutting him, hurting him like he'd hurt her when he'd made her walk home alone. If he hadn't said all of those cruel, nasty things to her, and told her to leave, she wouldn't have done what she'd done. She' never have gone crazy, never have been called a witch or a monster or any of those other nasty words. She stabbed Pete again as she remembered how she'd begged him not to send her away, but how her brother's friends had mocked her and threw rocks at her until she'd run home, crying.

"You, you killed me!" Melanie shouted, and she raised the knife over her head. Seeing Pete's face, hearing the boys' taunting laughter echoing in her memories, Melanie wanted it all to end. "Die!" she cried, and she plunged the knife downward, even as another voice shouted:

"Freeze! This is the police!"

The knife never found its final mark, but clattered to the floor with a resounding clang. Melanie couldn't feel her fingers, and an odd kind of pain blossomed from the center of her chest. She opened her mouth, intending to ask what had happened, but, instead of words came a horrid gurgling sound. It hurt to breathe, and everything tasted like blood. It was coppery and thick and it was choking her.

Her mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, and she wondered if she was drowning. She was staring up at the ceiling of her basement. She knew that it was her basement, and not the ceiling of one of the hospitals her mother had tried to put her away in, because she'd painted the beams a nice, happy, buttery yellow.

Melanie smiled when a dark-haired man came into view, and she tried to say something to him. Tried to explain that she'd painted the beams yellow because it was her favorite color and it helped to chase away the bad dreams, but she couldn't get the words out past her lips. She blinked, once, twice, and then it became too much effort to keep her eyes open. She felt pressure on her chest, heard a low rumble of voices, and then...nothing.

Darkness had placed its cold, ruthless hands around her heart and was squeezing. Melanie was terrified. She fought against the pull of death, clinging to life with all that she had left, and then she heard Pete's voice calling out to her, calling her his little shadow girl.

He didn't sound angry or sad, but happy. And he was just as he'd been, back when he was a boy of seventeen- tall as a beanpole, lean and wiry, and with a smile that could light up the whole universe. His blue eyes sparkled with a secret that Melanie was aching to know.

Pete turned toward her and beckoned her to follow him, but Melanie stood at a crossroads. Wind whipped through her hair, and she looked at the path her brother was on. It was narrow and twisty and there were little yellow flowers lining the path. The other path was wide and there were wildflowers strewn along either side of it. Big, gnarled oak trees lined both paths.

Pete's smile faltered as Melanie stood undecided. She wanted to follow Pete, but there was too much blood between them. It had formed a river, and she feared that if she dared try to step over it, she'd be swept away.

"It's okay, Mel," Pete said, and he started toward her, bridging the distance between them, and stepping over the river as though it was nothing more than a puddle. He grasped her by the hand, and then pulled her to himself, hugging her. "I forgive you."

"We lost her," a distant voice said, but Melanie turned away from it, and followed her brother, Pete. She felt lighter than she had in the longest time, and, when she looked at their hands, clasped together, she realized that she was a little girl once again, carefree and lighthearted, no stain of blood on her hands or her heart.


	7. Comin' 'Round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hutch wonders if he's really alive.

Hutch woke disoriented, and to the rhythmic sound of an annoying beep, beep, beep, that kept pace with the beat of his heart. He knew that he should know where he was, but he couldn't seem to make his brain work properly. Thoughts came and went, but they just wouldn't stick.

He tried to open his eyes, hoping that, if he could see his surroundings, it would help him to think a little more clearly. The beep, beep, beep that matched the beating of his heart, steadily increased, and it took Hutch a minute to understand that his panic at not being able to open his eyes was the reason behind it.

_Heart monitor,_ he thought, and the incessant beep, beep, beeping, started to slow down as he got his panic under control.

_Hospital,_ his slowly responding brain provided, and that revelation brought another increased tempo to the beeps, as Hutch tried, but failed to remember how he'd ended up in the hospital.

"Starsk?" he whispered as a sudden fear crawled up his spine. He curled his hands into fists and struggled to breathe as the heart monitor started beeping like crazy, sending up an alarm.

"Hutch."

Hutch turned his face toward the sound of his partner's voice, and he reached out, blind, and in terror. His hands grasped at empty air, and Hutch called out for Starsky again.

There was a woman. A woman with a knife and nails the color of blood. She was hurting him, cutting him, calling him a shadow and Stark his lover.

"Starsk!"

Hutch clawed at the bedsheets, and tried to get away from the woman who was looming over him, her dark hair tickling his chest as she drank his blood. Had she been a vampire? Where was Starsky? Was he dead? She'd said he was dead.

"Hey, hey, Hutch," Starsky's voice cut through his nightmare, and Hutch tried to get his heart to stop beating so fast, so that he could hear his partner speak.

"Hutch, it's okay, I've got you," Starksy's voice was strong and close, and Hutch's heart stopped trying to escape from his chest when Starsky took his hand and squeezed. "I've got you. You're safe now. She can't hurt you anymore."

"Can't see," Hutch said when he could finally breathe.

He felt his partner stiffen beside him, but Starsky squeezed his hand. "It's just temporary. Don't worry about it, you'll be seeing in no time. Docs've just got your eyes all wrapped up in gauze, so's that they can heal."

Hutch swallowed, and thought about it, and then nodded. He trusted Starsky, and knew that his partner wouldn't lie to him, not about something like this. Without his eyes, there would be no more Starsky and Hutch. It'd just be Starsky and some other guy.

"Do you remember what happened?" Starsky asked, once the heart monitor had resumed it's steady, beep, beep, beep, rhythm.

Hutch felt a headache building, just behind his eyes, as he tried to remember what had happened. But, his memories were slippery, intangible bits and pieces that he couldn't put words to. The beep, beep, beep began another ascent, and Starsky squeezed his hand.

"It's okay," Starsky said, "just rest. I've got you, buddy."

"'Kay," Hutch said around a yawn.

He slept, and when he woke next, Hutch was first aware of a warm, comforting hand holding his, and the gentle snoring of his partner that could be heard over the heart monitor's beeps. He smiled, knowing that he was safe, that the dark terror lurking just around the corner of his memories, could wait a little longer.

He drifted off again, waking when he no longer felt Starsky's hand holding his own. Panic engulfed him, and he feared that the beeps would blend with each other, until they were no longer separate sounds, but one long, unceasing beep.

"Easy there, Hutch," Starsky's voice carried to him from across the room. "You're okay. Captain Dobey's gonna swing on by later today to check up on you, see if you remember anything. Huggy Bear wants to stop by too."

"How long..." Hutch coughed around the dryness of his throat, and felt a straw placed against his lips. He took a tentative sip, and then drank in earnest when he realized that it was only water, and that he was extremely thirsty.

"You've been hospital bound for two weeks," Starsky answered, anticipating his question.

"Two weeks?"

It didn't feel like two weeks, and Hutch frowned. "Are you sure it's been two weeks?"

"Yeah," Starsky sounded weary, and Hutch wondered how long his partner had been at his bedside. "Two weeks, fourteen hours and...two and a quarter minutes."

Hutch felt the corners of his lips tug up in a smile. "Two and a quarter minutes?" He chuckled.

"Two and three quarters now," Starsky said dryly.

"And just how long have you been sitting by my bedside?" Hutch had a sinking suspicion that his partner hadn't left his side. It only grew when Starsky hemmed and hawed instead of answering him.

"Oh, about two weeks, give or take," Captain Dobey's voice, filled with equal parts humor and chastisement, boomed across the small room.

"Tell me you've come to order him home to get some rest," Hutch said, turning his head toward the sound of his captain's voice. His inability to see suddenly hit him, and he swallowed hard and laid his head back against his pillow. He felt dizzy and there was a dull ache behind his eyes.

"You okay there Hutch?" Starsky's voice was close to his ear, he could feel his partner's breath against his earlobe.

"'M fine," Hutch quickly assured him, waving his hand in the air, only to have Starsky catch it, and draw it toward his chest.

"Yeah, sure you are," Starsky said in a gruff voice. "Don't worry about me, partner, I'm not leaving your side. There ain't no horse that can drag me away, and, though he might be a bit of a nagger, Captain Dobey can't drag me away neither."

"Very funny Starsky," Dobey said, and Hutch could picture the look on their captain's face, it was not amused. "Keep that up and you'll be riding a desk for the rest of your career."

The familiarity of the exchange helped ease some of the tension and fear that had been building inside of Hutch's chest. He laughed and settled back against the hospital bed. His dizziness subsided when Starsky gently squeezed his hand.

Hutch yawned, and frowned, wondering when he'd be able to stay awake for longer than a couple of hours at a time. "Sorry." This is not how he wanted to appear in front of his boss.

"That's okay, I know I ain't the most entertaining of visitors, but, I do have a few questions to ask. If you're up to it."

Hutch heard Dobey settle into a chair, and he steeled himself to answer the questions he'd known were going to come. They were questions that he and Starsky would have had to ask a victim of such a brutal crime.

His throat was dry and hoarse, and his tongue felt swollen by the time Hutch had finished telling the captain what he could remember. He was shaking and sweating, and he simply lost consciousness mid-word.

Before he found himself lost completely to strange, disjointed dreams, Hutch thought he heard a soft, worried exchange between his boss and partner. He hated feeling so helpless and scared.

 


	8. Never Take My Eyes Off of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starsky chases the nightmares away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: * Reference is made to dialogue in the episode titled, "Heroes"; herein lies some fluff, and pre-slashiness (nothing too far out of context of the show - at least I don't think so). Thanks so much for the reviews. :-)

Starsky felt tears prick at the back of his eyes as he listened to his partner tell them what had happened to him when he'd been taken by Melanie Cruise.

The young, psychotic woman had been in and out of mental institutions since she was fifteen, having been first interred in one after she'd killed her older brother in a fit of rage. She'd then almost killed herself in a house fire that she'd started.

It was a sad story, one which Starsky had learned about after he'd shot her. Even if he had known about her condition and the trauma she'd been through before he'd found his partner, ten hours after Hutch had been taken, Starsky doubted that it would have stilled his hand. He'd have shot the woman anyway.

Starsky had seen nothing but red when he saw Melanie, drenched head to foot in Hutch's blood, kneeling over his partner with a bloodied knife held high above her head. His heart had stopped, and he'd called out a warning, maybe two, before he'd pulled the trigger when she'd attempted to stab his partner square in the chest.

He'd walked toward his partner and the fallen woman on feet numb with fear. He'd been certain that his partner was dead, and dropped to his knees beside him. Hutch was naked from the waist up, and his chest was covered with blood. His face had been carved into, several times over, and one look at the man's open, sightless eyes made Starsky want to throw up.

But, by some miracle, Hutch had survived the horrible ordeal, and Starsky was never going to let the man out of his sight, ever again. As he sat by his partner's side, waiting for him to regain consciousness, Starsky had been plotting, and he'd come up with a plan.

It was kind of along the same lines of the real estate scheme he'd cooked up a few years back, but with a few key differences. The chief difference being that, yes, he did want Hutch to move in with him. Hutch had been joking when he'd said, *"...you asking me to move in with you?"*

It was no longer a joking matter. At least not with Starsky. Those hours he'd spent searching for the station wagon that Vicky had described, had put certain things into perspective for Starsky. One of them being that he actually loved Hutch, and as more than just a friend, or a brother. He loved Hutch so much that his heart had ached, and, the ache had only eased some when he'd found the station wagon.

Starsky only called for backup because he knew that Hutch would be mad at him if he didn't, and he knew that there were other officers in the vicinity. He'd been the first to enter the house and had lead the way to the basement.

Starsky had held his partner until the paramedics arrived, only letting go of Hutch when Dobey had pried the barely breathing man out of his arms. It had been hard to let go, and Starsky had feared that, if he wasn't there, by his partner's side, Hutch would die.

Starsky had followed the ambulance to the hospital at breakneck speeds, and then had spent the longest night of his life waiting as Hutch underwent the first of several surgeries to try to repair the damage that Melanie had made to his eyes. Many of the cuts the woman had inflicted on Hutch had required stitches as well.

When Hutch had been wheeled out of surgery, he'd looked like a mummy - wrapped from head to waist in gauze. Starsky set up camp in Hutch's hospital room, much to the chagrin of the hospital staff. As he waited for his partner to wake, Starsky brainstormed how he was going to convince his bullheaded partner that cohabiting was a good idea.

Hutch's stubbornness was only equal to Starsky's own. Their mutual stubbornness is part of what made them such good partners, and why they drove their captain, and various girlfriends, crazy sometimes.

Hearing Hutch recount what little he could remember of what had happened to him while he was in Melanie's clutches, had only served to solidify Starsky's resolve to keep Hutch close at hand. He hated seeing his partner in pain, and so vulnerable.

"I can feel you thinking," Hutch said, and Starsky sat up in the chair that had quickly become his home away from home. He hadn't realized that Hutch had woken, and hoped that it wasn't his fault.

Starsky stifled a yawn, and scrubbed at his face. He was tired and hadn't truly slept since his partner had been taken. He longed for his bed, but refused to leave the hospital until Hutch could leave with him.

"How're you feeling?"

"Like I've been wrestling with a chainsaw wielding crocodile."

Starsky laughed and shook his head, even as his heart twinged in sympathetic pain. "Need me to get the doc, so you can have more pain meds?"

Hutch's face scrunched up in disapproval, and he waved off Starsky's suggestion. "Nah, pain's not that bad. What's got that brain of yours working on overdrive?"

Starsky drew in a shaky breath, and let it out slowly. Now that the time had come, Starsky had no idea what to say.

"Come on, Starsk," Hutch cajoled, "tell me what's going on in that overactive brain of yours."

He held his hand out, blindly, and Starsky immediately caught it up in his own, threading their fingers together. Unthinking, Starsky brought their entwined fingers up to his mouth, and brushed his lips over Hutch's bruised knuckles.

Hutch's breath hitched, and Starsky belatedly realized what he'd done. He tried to disentangle their hands, but Hutch didn't let go. The injured man swallowed and turned his gauze wrapped eyes toward him.

"How long?" Hutch asked in a husky voice.

Closing his eyes, Starsky rested his forehead against the cool railing of the hospital bed. He took a couple of steadying breaths, and then lifted his head. He stared at their hands, fingers laced together, and then, holding off answering for a little while longer, Starsky kissed the back of Hutch's hand.

"For a while now," Starsky said in a quiet voice. "Months, maybe years." He shrugged, and lightly squeezed Hutch's hand. "Move in with me?" he blurted, and winced at the stubborn frown that almost immediately marred his partner's face as soon as the words had left his mouth.

"I'd meant for that to come out differently," Starsky said.

"Tell me you didn't spend the last couple of weeks building up to asking me to live with you," Hutch groaned, but his voice was light hearted and teasing.

Starsky smiled, and shrugged. "Might've been."

"You big goof," Hutch batted at him with his other hand.

"So, is that a yes?" Starsky held his breath as he watched a variety of emotions pass over his friend's face.

"It's a maybe," Hutch finally answered, and Starsky's heart fell, but he took some comfort in the fact that Hutch hadn't turned him down outright.

He still had time to work on the other man, and sway Hutch to his way of thinking.

"Let's wait until all of this," Hutch waved his hand around as he spoke, "has died down some. Okay?"

Starsky didn't answer right away. He wasn't sure what to say, how to assure Hutch that his desire to share a home was not a decision he'd made in the heat of the moment, or because he felt sorry or worried about the other man. Starsky wanted to tell Hutch that he loved him, that he'd loved him all along, and that he was ashamed it had taken almost losing him for him to finally admit it to himself, and to Hutch.

"I'm still pretty messed up," Hutch continued, "and, well Starsk, I thought I was going to die. Hell, at one point I thought I had, but then I pictured you, and..."

"And, what?" Starsky pressed, and he leaned closer toward his partner.

"And," Hutch let out an audible breath and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up even more than it already was. He turned his head, and took a deep breath. "And, thinking about you kept me going."

Starsky felt as though the weight which had settled on his chest when Hutch hadn't shown up for work had lifted at his partner's confession, and he smiled his first genuine smile since the whole ordeal had begun. "You were thinking of me?" His heart skipped a beat at the lopsided smile on Hutch's face.

Hutch shook his head, and rested back against his pillow. He tired so easily, but Starsky knew that it meant that his best friend was on the mend.

"Wipe that goofy grin off your face."

"What goofy grin?"

"That one." Hutch gestured in the general vicinity of Starksy's face. "I don't have to see it to know that it's there."

Starsky sobered at Hutch's words. The doctors had said that the damage Melanie Cruise had done to his partner's eyes was fairly superficial (deeply scratched corneas) and shouldn't be permanent, but, if infection set in, then it would become tricky.

If she'd truly dug her nails into Hutch's eyes, he'd have been permanently blinded, seeing only shadows for the rest of his life. It made Starsky angry just thinking about what that woman, crazy or not, had done to his friend. How she'd almost blinded, almost killed him, and would have continued killing others if Starsky hadn't stopped her.

"Hey," Hutch's voice drew him from his ruminations, "it's okay. I'm going to be okay. You heard the doctors, in a few days, I'll be getting these things off of my eyes, and..."

"I know, it's just," Starsky paused and took a deep breath, and then he let it out slowly, "it's just, I thought you were dead, Hutch. I thought she'd killed you."

"Well, she didn't, and I'm still here," Hutch said, squeezing Starsky's hand. "And, I'm not going anywhere, partner." Hutch brought their clasped hands toward his mouth and kissed Starsky's hand, much as Starsky had done earlier.

Starsky felt himself blushing, and his heart flip-flopped in his chest, and he relaxed a little. "So...you aren't...opposed to the idea of moving in together?"

"Starsky, give it a rest," Hutch said dryly, and then he yawned, and his grip went slack, and Starsky sat there, holding his friend's hand while the man slept.

* * *

Just as he was falling asleep, Hutch felt something warm and gentle press against his lips, and felt a murmured, "I love you," ghost over them.

He wasn't sure how he felt about this newfound obsession that his partner seemed to have for his safety, and, well, for kissing him and holding his hand, and wanting to live with him, but Hutch found that he didn't mind it either.

It felt...comfortable, and right. Safe even. Not that he was going to mention any of that to Starsky, at least not yet. His big-headed partner didn't need his ego boosted anymore than it already was. His own even-temper and sense of humility was part of what made their partnership work. Where Starsky was pigheaded and fit to burst in anger, Hutch was calm and cool. It was a good combination, one that worked and one that helped them bust criminals.

Would that combination make for a good relationship outside of work? That, Hutch wasn't so sure about, but, he was willing to give it a try. Just as soon as he was on the mend, and was certain that Starsky wasn't being moved by his plight, seeing him as weak and vulnerable and needing to be taken care of.

Hutch finally let sleep claim him. Starsky's hold on his hand helped keep the nightmares at bay, for now. He knew that he'd be having them for some time to come, but he was content to let Starsky help chase them away for now.


	9. Epilogue: Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This brings things to a close. Thank you so much for those who've read and particularly to those who've left reviews. The concept of slash with regard to Starsky and Hutch was actually acknowledged by the actors and the writers themselves, and showcased on the show (from what I've seen of TV interviews and on the episodes that I've watched on YouTube); I thought I'd just give them a little extra push toward that end.

Hutch thought through the last few months since his release from the hospital, remembering how overjoyed he's been when he could finally see again. He thought about what Melanie Cruise had done to him, and how it still gave him nightmares. And, he thought about his burgeoning relationship with Starsky.

The dark-haired man was still asking him to think about moving in together, circling apartments for rent, houses for sale, in bright red marker and leaving the advertisements where Hutch was bound to find them. It was equal parts annoying and touching.

They hadn't moved in together, yet, but neither of them went home alone - half the time Starsky was over at his place, or Hutch was over at Starsky's place. There were toothbrushes in bathrooms, clothing tucked away in drawers, and the occasional odd and end that they would stumble across in their mutual apartments, marking them as the friends and sometimes lovers that they were now.

Was it love? Was that even the right word to attach to what he and Starsky Had? Certainly there was more to their relationship than just plain, ordinary love.

"Mr. Hutchinson, I am ever so glad that your partner brought you back in one piece; I just knew that woman was up to no good the moment I laid eyes on her," his neighbor, Vicky, said, drawing him from his inner musings, and back to the present. "Though, I am sorry for what you been through."

She patted his arm, and Hutch gave her a warm, friendly smile. He still couldn't believe that she had been a key witness to his kidnapping, and that her eyewitness account had led to Starsky finding him. He likewise couldn't believe the almost familial relationship between Starsky and Vicky that had somehow developed over the intervening months of his convalescence. The two were like mother and son, and both had mother-henned him about to death.

"So," Starsky interrupted, inserting himself between Vicky and Hutch by stepping over the back of the couch, and sitting down between them, "I believe that you mentioned something about pie, Mrs. Carter?"

Hutch rolled his eyes, and exchanged an amused look with Vicky.

"How many times I got to tell you to call me Vicky, young man?" There was a sparkle in the older woman's eyes, and Starsky gave her a cheeky grin.

"Pie?" he asked.

Placing his arm around Starsky's shoulders, Hutch settled back to listen to the banter between the two, and hoped that they would settle the matter of names and the question of pie so that he could have dessert. Later that night, once they had finished their pie, and Vicky had been escorted home - two doors down - and he and Starsky were settled into bed, comfortably wrapped up in each other's arms, he'd tell Starsky that he was ready to move in together. For now, though, he'd content himself with simply enjoying his partner's presence.


End file.
